John Creasey - Inspector West Alone

He approached the door determinedly.

He swung the blade of the axe powerfully against the panel just above the lock; the wood caught the blade and held it, he had to wrench it out. That eerie sound didn’t stop. He smashed again, and splintered the wood; smashed on with fierce urgency until a strip of the panelling lay on the floor. He thrust his hand through the gap, hoping for the unlikely—a key on the inside.

There wasn’t one.

He smashed again and again, until the lock gave way and the door sagged open. By then, he was dripping with sweat; and the moaning sounded louder. He shouldered the door wide open, flashed on his torch, and stepped inside the room.

A man was pressed tightly against the wall, and Roger didn’t see him until he came leaping forward.

Sharp nails clawed at Roger’s face, a knee came up and caught him agonizingly in the groin. As he reeled back against the swinging door, hands clutched at his throat and squeezed; powerful, claw-like hands. He tried to use the axe as a weapon, but couldn’t get it into position. He felt the air locked in his lungs, his chest heaved as he tried to breathe, as blackness descended upon him. He struggled, kicked, but he couldn’t free himself.

He slumped to the floor.

CHAPTER II

THE DARK ROOM

IT was dark.

That was all Roger realized at first;—darkness and pain that was little more than discomfort at his chest, and a smarting soreness at his face. He didn’t know what had happened until he heard a sound—a moan. Then everything flashed back.

He was lying on the floor.

He couldn’t see where, but the moan was so near that he knew he was in the room.

There was a dull pain in his groin, and when he tried to get up, the pain became sharp and he collapsed, grunting. The moaning went on—a steady trickle of sound. He turned gently on to his right side, and began to get up. His head swam, but he managed to stand. He put out his right hand and touched the wall, swayed towards it and then leaned against it; his lungs still felt tight and locked.

Outside, the wind was howling.

He heard a different sound, neither the wind nor the woman—rather that of a car on the road. It faded. He bent down, and the blood rushed to his ears as he groped for his torch, found it, and switched it on. The light was so bright that it hurt his eyes. He didn’t switch off, but swivelled the light round slowly until at last it fell upon the woman.

She lay on a single bed, two yards away from him, one arm hanging over the side—a slim white hand. Her body was flat, and she lay on her back. Her clothes were dishevelled, her long legs, sheathed in nylon, were nice legs. As the light travelled up, he saw enough to judge that she was young and comely; not her face, the light didn’t touch her face yet—just her body. Her white blouse was open at the neck. The light fell upon the point of her chin, and it might be Janet’s. Then it travelled to her face and her head——

He dropped the torch.

It crashed on to the floor and went out, plunging the room into darkness.

When the worst of the shock was over and his mind began to work, one thought came absurdly into it: how could she be alive? How could anyone so injured be alive?

Then he heard the car again—much nearer. He didn’t at first realize what it was, but when the engine stopped and a door slammed, he knew that someone had arrived outside. He didn’t move, but stared towards the bed. He heard footsteps, and then a heavy banging on the front door.

Someone shouted; he didn’t catch the words.

He said aloud: “I’m a policeman. I’m used to seeing dead bodies.”

He wasn’t used to such a sight as that—or to the thing which brought the real horror—the possibility that the woman was his wife. Dark skirt, white blouse, long, slim legs, long, slim, slender arm and hand—he had seen the right hand, which had been ringless; Janet wore no rings on her right hand, but she often wore a dark skirt and a white blouse.

There were other sounds, now, of men walking in the house, then along the passage. He heard them talking, but still couldn’t catch the words. There were two or three men downstairs. They started to come up. He put out a foot, feeling for his torch. He didn’t touch it. Faint light appeared; the men were coming cautiously and carrying a torch.

He licked his lips and called: “Who’s there?”

The footsteps stopped on the instant, and the light went out.

He called: “It’s all right. Who’s there?”

He heard a shuffling sound, and then the creaking of boards—and suddenly a beam of light stabbed into the room and into his face. He shut his eyes against it, before he saw the two husky men and the third, behind them. Next moment, he felt powerful hands on his arm, and he was held tightly. When he opened his eyes, the torch light was shining towards the bed.

For a long time—minutes—no one spoke. Then one of the men said in a thick voice:

“You swine.”

Roger said: “Don’t be a fool. I——”

“Shut up!”

He didn’t want to talk, explanations could come later. And these were policemen; before the night was out, they would be turning somersaults in order to please him. Two of them were police-constables, anyhow, the third was in plain clothes. Roger didn’t recognize his lean face, and that wasn’t because of the poor light. He couldn’t be expected to know every plain-clothes man in the Surrey C.I.D. What he was expected to know didn’t matter. Fear had been driven away for a spell, but came back in waves of terror.

Was that Janet?

The man in plain cloths said: “Better have some more light. Light the lamp outside, Harris.”

“Yes, sir.” Harris, the policeman nearer the door, seemed reluctant to release Roger’s arm. When he did, the other man held on more tightly, and hurt; but that wasn’t important, all that mattered was finding out whether the woman was Janet.

The woman had stopped moaning.

The plain-clothes man approached the bed.

Roger said: “Look at her right shoulder.”

The man, his back turned on Roger, appeared to be shining his torch into her face.

“Look——” began Roger.

“You keep quiet,” said the big policeman, and dug his fingers more deeply into Roger’s arm.

“This will be the doctor,” said the plain-clothes man.

Harris came in with the lamp, alight but turned up too high and smoking badly. He stood it on the dressing-table, and the plain-clothes man told him to be careful not to touch anything. He trimmed the lamp clumsily. After the darkness and the beam of torchlight, it seemed a soft, gentle but all-revealing glow.

Roger said in a taut voice: “All I’ve asked you to do is look at her right shoulder.”

“The plain-clothes man was tall, with thin features; and the light made him look yellow.

“Why?”

“See if there’s a mole at the back of her right shoulder—egg-shaped.”

“Want to make sure you got the right woman?”

“You can be funny afterwards.”

“With you, no one will ever be funny again,” said the plain-clothes man. He made no attempt to look at the woman’s shoulder. She lay absolutely still, and hadn’t moaned again. It was better that she should be dead than alive, but—the question hammered itself against his mind, filling him with wild terror. Was she Janet?

He forced himself to speak calmly.

“Will you please look at her right shoulder and tell me if there’s a mole on it?”

The plain-clothes man said: “Take him downstairs, you two, and ask Dr. Gillik to come upstairs at once. If the squad car has come with him, tell them to be very careful what they touch and to start on that downstairs window. I’ll send for them when I want them. Oh, I’d better have the photographer up at once.”

“Yes, sir.” Harris and his companion pulled at Roger’s arms.

A mole—and it was Janet. No mole—not Janet.

Roger got one arm free, and then sensed what was coming. He turned his head. A ham-like fist smashed into his nose, blinding him with pain and tears. The woman and the plain-clothes man became shapeless blurs. He felt himself dragged out of the room. Then one man took his arm and bent it behind him in a simple hammer-lock, and pushed him downwards. The other followed. There were men in the hall, including a middle-aged man with greying hair and carrying a black bag; “doctor” was written all over him.

“Inspector Hansell would like you to go straight up, doctor, please.” .

“What’s this all about?”

“Very nasty business, sir.”

Cold grey eyes scanned Roger’s face. The doctor didn’t speak, but couldn’t have said more clearly: “And you’ve got the man, good.” Roger was thrust into a small front room, where a lamp burned, then pushed into a chair.

“That’s too comfortable for him,” said Harris. “Get up— sit on that chair.”

“That chair” was an upright one.

Roger didn’t move.

“I told you to get up!”

It wasn’t worth arguing. He stood up, then sat on the other chair, which was near a big, heavy, old-fashioned standard lamp. He didn’t realize what Harris was at until cold steel pressed into his wrist, and a lock snapped. He was handcuffed to the standard lamp.

So this was what it was like on the other side of the law; how they dealt with a suspect. No, be just. They hadn’t really manhandled him; Harris had been justified in striking him when he had tried to get away, and couldn’t really be blamed for the power he’d put into his punch. The handcuffs were justified, because he’d made one attempt to escape.

His arm, stretched out, began to ache.

Men were going up the stairs.

What had brought them so quickly and in such force?

Harris, red-faced and bucolic, kept staring at him.

Roger said slowly and deliberately: “I want to send a message to Inspector Hansell from Chief Inspector West of New Scotland Yard.” Harris started. “I want to know whether that woman has a mole at the back of her right shoulder, and I want to know quickly.”

Harris shrugged.

“When the Inspector wants to hear from you, he’ll tell you. Keep your mouth shut.”

“Damn you, find out about that mole! Tell him that I’m West. Get a move on!”

Harris was startled. The other constable grunted, and they exchanged glances. Then Harris said: “I’m Queen of the May.” But he went out of the room and made his way up the stairs; they creaked at every step. The other man, husky enough but smaller than Harris, moved to the door; as if he didn’t want to become inveigled into conversation.

When Roger heard Harris’s ponderous tread on the stairs again, the nightmare became reality. He sat upright, straining his eyes and his body.

A man spoke to Harris, whose rumbling voice came clearly; his words had nothing to do with Janet. Roger half-rose from his chair, and the constable at the door growled:

“Don’t try anything.”

The rumbling went on, then stopped; Harris appeared. A word burst out of Roger.

“ Well? ”

“No mole.” said Harris.

CHAPTER III

WHY ?

THE dead woman wasn’t Janet. Janet was alive, free, Janet was——

Janet wasn ’ t here.

And what about Cousin Phyllis?

What was behind all this?

As a frame-up, it was nearly perfect.

Once accept the possibility that someone had wanted to lure him here and have him accused of murder, and the rest followed easily enough. But swallowing that wasn’t easy.

The sobering process continued.